Milky Ways
by Evie Antorcha
Summary: Kyle becomes wrapped into a world where doubt prevails, and black will forever be the new black. Slash Kyle/Red Goth
1. Chapter 1

If my mom saw me right now, she'd actually call for the holy spirit of Jesus Christ.

I'm dressed as if I'm going to a damn Marilyn Manson concert or a satanic cult convention. Stan has been in my room for the passed hour helping me get ready for the tonight's party that I didn't really want to go to begin with. He knows I'm not the type to attend those retarded parties where everyone humiliates themselves with drugs and intense intoxication. Negotiating with Stan however never exactly works on my end; he always seems to convince me to do weird shit that I would never involve myself in. When Stan came over to pick me up I was all ready to head out, but he thought I was too underdressed for the occasion. He acted like a complete hetero-sexual the moment he scanned my attire, bluntly reminding me of his short lived 'queer eye for the straight guy' phase, ulgh. Considering this party is catered to every goth, scene and punk kid in town, I had to blend in.

Oh, and emo kids were supposedly not invited.

Stan has dressed me up in a pair of his dark washed skinny jeans that predominantly showed off my ass cheeks, a fitted black tee that also shows off more then what I'm use to. I'm also wearing my traditional black and white converse. Stan rummaged through my closet and found a silver and black checkered stud belt that he made me put on to accentuate the whole scene look, courtesy of Kenny who left it at my house one day. I ended up tossing it in my closet, completely forgetting about it the moment I shut the sliding door. He then pulled out a black pencil from his back pocket and handed it to me.

"Put this on." He offered.

I slowly twisted the pencil between my thumb and index finger in bewilderment, clearly not understanding his request. "Dude, what the hell do-

"Here, sit down." He directed with his hand towards my computer chair.

I did what I was told with out any objection; a mix of curiosity and frustration seemed to support my lack of protest. He snatched the pencil away from my weak hold just as swiftly as he tossed it to me. One of Stan's hands came to my face, his thumb pressed against the delicate skin underneath my left eye as he leaned in directing the black pencil with his other hand toward my the rim of my lid. I knitted my brows and immediately pulled back from instinct.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, my voice slightly cracking from alarm.

"It's just some eyeliner, don't freak out." Stan reassured me, but his casualness was not necessarily rubbing off on me.

"That shit is for girls." I informed, flabbergasted.

"Not in this case, now relax." He eased, holding up both hands in defense.

A few moments of silence passes without giving him my full consent. I feel his gaze piercing through mine and I know in due time I'll just give in like I normally do under these type of circumstances.

"Do you want to go or not?" He finally asks.

"No!" I replied without filtering out my answer, a wave of shock courses through me after that ridiculous question slipped his mouth. I told him I didn't want to go from the very beginning but he pressured me on into going. God, I don't know how he does it and I don't know why I agree at the end of it all.

Stan shook his head dismissing my answer and continued on. "Whatever dude, just relax."

I roll my eyes as an exasperated sigh escapes my lips. I feel like a bratty child right now who's forced to look all dolled up for six a.m. Sunday school. Except the only thing I'll be encountering tonight will be people who wish they'd hang out with the fallen angel himself.

I can feel Stan's warm breath on my check as he traces the black ink on the rim of my eye. I can feel my eye begin to tear up as air began to irritate it. Stan's mouth becomes slightly ajar and his eyes become more focused as he traces over my rim again, he moves to my right eye and proceeds to repeat the same process. My eyes are so watery right now I think the liner will just wash right off. When Stan is done I blink excessively until the irritation subsides and my visual clarity is back.

"It looks really good on you." Stan compliments with a small tug at the edge of his lips. "Just get your finger and slightly smudge the eyeliner a little bit for a more dramatic look." He advised.

I got up and went over to my mirror that's hangs over my dresser and took a look. The black did seem to enhance my green orbs it almost reminded me of cat eyes. I couldn't help but to discreetly admire Stan's work, it did look pretty cool. I took my finger and lightly rubbed the liner and it suddenly converted into a more smoky effect.

I wiped my finger on the denim of my jeans and turned around and presented my final look to Stan with both of my arms crossed over my chest with a 'are you happy now?' look.

"Perfect." He complimented clearly satisfied with his work.

I seriously hope tonight will go a lot smoother than what I've been imagining.

TBC

* * *

I've been wanting to write this for a while now. I hope it turns out well considering I never read anything along these line yet involving Kyle and Red Goth. Also very sorry to my readers who is reading "Half Lidded Eyes" I'm seriously stuck right now and I tend to get a kick of inspiration if I write something completely different. R/R!


	2. Chapter 2

"I didn't know you were still friends with her." I stated rather absentmindedly as I kept my eyes on the pine trees speeding past me.

"Yeah, well sort of. We still talk and whatever. It's not like she completely fucked me over after I decided to leave her clique back in the 4th grade."

I scoffed with a roll of my eyes "The other guys did." I replied under my breath.

Stan released a small huff, basically agreeing. "They now eased up a bit, but they were assholes, Henrietta was different; she was always… really cool."

I paused for a moment, and wrinkled a single brow trying to filter out his subtext. I always knew he still somewhat talked to Henrietta but I never got any implication it was anything further than that until now. Acquaintances always summed it up for me but I suppose regarding to his peculiar undertone that he failed to hide with me, there has to be something more that I'm not aware of, and being his best friend that seriously blows. "Did you…did you ever have a thing for her? I mean after you and Wendy…" I asked, trailing off.

Stan looked at me as if I was some psycho. "Dude! No!" He shouts a little too defensively for my taste.

I stared at him skeptically. "Alright." I say calmly as I preserve the doubt laced in my tone. "You know you can tell me shit like this, but if you don't want to that's fine."

Stan snaps his head back to the road ahead of us and continues sharply. "No Kyle, I never did have a thing for her even after Wendy and I broke up for good back in the 9th grade. Henrietta was just always cool with me, and don't you start preaching about being honest with each other. You still never told me about that little incident you had last year, it doesn't matter much anyway, it's obvious what really happened." Stan finishes now clearly getting defensive about the question I asked.

I decided to drop the subject right there. The event that happened with me last year is the last thing I want to talk about. It happened so fast and unexpected and I seriously didn't want anyone to find out about it especially Stan, but that desire was unfortunately not granted to me. Also the thought of Stan acting all odd at the party with Henrietta due to a silly inquiry didn't sit well with me either.

We stayed silent for a few minutes before Stan broke the silence; regret now replaced his previously callous tone. "I'm sorry…" He softly began with a slight stutter. "I didn't mean to-"

"No, its fine dude, don't worry about it." I cut him off with a reassuring smile however it barely touched my eyes. I didn't want him to apologize like that. I know for fact he didn't mean anything spiteful by it. He just got a little carried away and that is a very common flaw that Stan has to handle with control on a daily basis. His awesome friendship is one feature that I will forever treasure but his temper is on a completely different field that I rarely get involved in, and he loathes it when I fall into his episodes like the beginnings of this one.

"Kyle, I didn't mean to bring it up like that, I'm really sorry dude, I'm serious." Stan honestly said, completely ignoring my earlier request. He did appear truly sorry and there was no way I could get angry with him with that genuine look of concern and regret plastered on his face.

"…Thanks, but its fine." I replied giving him one last assuring look before focusing my attention back to the fleeting trees.

We arrived at the party at around 11 p.m. or so. Thank Moses my mom was already asleep before I left so she didn't have to see the way out look I'm sporting tonight. When we pulled up on the edge of the street to park I can already hear the thumping of music, and it wasn't your average mainstream music you'd hear at a typical house party, it contained more of a deeper tone, heavy bass, with some screaming involved in the lyrics. There also appeared to be a strobe light blinking through the windows of the house.

"Great... I'm walking into a fucking rave…" I mumbled as I unbuckled my seat belt.

"Don't worry dude, it's going to be fine, just be yourself and you'll be alright." Stan assured me with one of his trademark smiles.

I didn't respond and simply got out the car. As we both sauntered down the walkway heading to the front door I kept feeling a little self-conscious about the jeans I had on. I swear that this article of denim material is intended for a girl, which should concern me a bit of how Stan managed to get these. I already know they don't belong to his sister; she's a bit more on the curvier side.

The thumping of the music got louder and the lyrics became more incomprehensible, the piercing screams of the artists didn't exactly help me with understanding of exactly what their screaming is about to begin with. It was jarring and not something I'd never see myself listening to. Stan invites himself in the front door and I follow behind as discreetly as my body allows, but I know I'll get noticed before I know it. He spotted Henrietta in the living room talking to a guy with an insanely large green Mohawk, it was evenly spiked vertically across his head, and the only way I can imagine that it stays as solid as it does is with industrial super glue. I have to keep myself from staring a little too intensely. But hell, the guy might like that type of attention.

Henrietta's intimidating indigos caught Stan from the corner of her eye. She looks very...creepy, but I could only imagine that's her main goal for tonight. Her eyes are traced with heavily smoked eyeliner along with blue sparkling shadow to compliment her orbs. She's wearing a jet-black dress decorated with lace to add on the whole Goth effect. She also appears to have on a black corset with red lacing crossing along the small of her back, the material is squeezing her waist which causes her breasts to have an instant lift and revealing cleavage.

She smiled, and I must admit it was hauntingly attractive. "You made it." She said, her deep velvety voice sends goosebumps up my spine.

"Yeah," Stan replies with a matching smile as he leans in and gives her a hug. "I brought Kyle along too." He said as he directed his attention towards me.

I gave a small smile in return while her eyes bore into mine. It looked as if she was examining me somehow and I couldn't help feeling slightly uncomfortable but the stare felt pleasurable in a sense. She walked towards me and her delicate hand rose towards my face. She ended up twirling one of my curly locks around her black finger painted index finger.

"I like your hair Broflovfski" She cooed, her husky voice filling my ears, a tingling sensation.

"Thanks" I can almost swear I choked out the word. I couldn't prevent the genuine smile that spread across my lips from her compliment tied in the embarrassment I just pulled myself into.

"I'm going to go get a drink, you want one." Stan asked above the blast of the music.

I shook my head denying his offer. "Na, I'm fine dude."

Stan disappeared into the kitchen and I took a seat on the couch in the living room where I was accompanied by a couple next to me eagerly making out and groping each other in every crevice of their bodies. They didn't even flitch when I somewhat invaded their bubble, or maybe their so into what going on between them to even bother noticing what's going on around them.

The music kept blaring, piercing my eardrums and I tried to find something about it that I may like, however no avail after minutes of searching. I looked towards the direction of the kitchen to see Stan with a red plastic cup of god knows what substance, talking to the Goth kid with curly hair, Robert...I think.

I lightly shake my head, scoffing at the sight of my best friend. I decided to divert my attention back to the people surrounding me and allowed my mind to wander. Why the hell am I here and why the hell did I ever agree to attend to begin with. It's like I got warped into a different dimension, a different life of sorts. Fuck it, I'm here now, might as well make the most of my night out without being within the clutches of my nagging mother, and being someone I'll never in my days see myself being.

"Hey."

A raspy voice was suddenly in my ear, it was male and I couldn't help to realize how soft it was. I shoot my head to the left and see someone I only saw from afar and never bothered talking, approaching, or acknowledging to. Stan's former friend

"Hi…" I said; stunned at how piercing his eyes were. Intimidating yet holding a sort of ease in them.

" Your Kyle...right?" He asked, his deep blues shaping into slight curiosity.

"Uh, y-yea "

He smirked at me and there was something hidden in that, something I couldn't read and I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out what it was, like he knew more of me then what I knew of myself.

"I'm Skyler." He introduced, with a flick of his head to fly away the heavy razor cut hair topped with red streaks, it covered the left side of his eye and partially his check.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't seem as strange as I initially assumed. Despite his attire being punk coupled with this sense of tragedy, his behavior is pretty…ordinary, as far as psychologists and overall society is concerned. It really surprised me when he suddenly brought up subjects worth being apart of for the sake of conversing. From current events to fads and even lightly brushed on a recent story in congress. His use of correct grammar tagged with dashes of advanced vocabulary words, one only learns from a dictionary really showed that he's more engaged intellectually than most people I come across.

The more I speak to him; the prodding ache of foolishness grew larger inside me. How can I be so judgmental? Here I thought this guy was a complete wrist cutting, cynical-weirdo, could care less about anything or anyone and therefore not worth getting to know. Yet here I am, years later, completely enjoying his company and what he has to say. It dawned on me as to why I haven't taken any classes with him. However, I then remembered he's a year above me.

He suddenly got stood up. "You want to go get a drink?" He offered. His voice was raspy although the music blurred most of it out.

I sort of made a small vow not to drink tonight, but that promise was thrown out as quickly as it came in. I found myself giving a quick nod and following him through the crowds of people into the kitchen. It was just as occupied with bodies tainted with a stench of stale perfume, although, their natural scents still crept out their pores. The smell wasn't pleasant nor was it unpleasant; it's just what it's meant to be. A candid feature they so desperately try to hide with sham scents our bodies are incapable of producing.

Skyler took a quick sip of his drink before he handed me one, most likely consisting of a jack and coke. "Can you hold your liquor?" He asks above the beat of the bass.

Honestly, I don't know if I can hold it. I've never exactly drank enough liquor to where I've gotten officially drunk. Tipsy is somewhere I've been but nothing ever exceeding that.

"Yeah…" I lie, the last thing I want to sound like is a fucking goody two shoes that has never experienced a hammered night out.

I take a sip of poison and I had to force myself to gulp it down. The burning sensation was ruthless against my throat and my eyes suddenly felt stingy. I guess Skyler noticed my reaction and he lightly chuckled.

"I make my drinks pretty strong, especially being around all these wanna-be douche bags." He scoffed.

I thought too soon, I suppose he still carries that cynicism he and his friends are known for. I pretend to ignore his comment and continue to drink not exactly knowing what to say to something like that. After a few minutes of standing around we walk back to the living room only to noticed our previous spot was taken up by a couple of Goth chicks with excessively teased black hair, ghostly pale skin and lacy jet black dresses that also had plum and red accented colors. The dresses appeared to be warped edition of Victorian attire. The look was something I would never be attracted to but in a way I can understand the alluring pull one may find in them, a glamorous haunted desire of sorts.

Skyler and I silently decide to stand instead. We don't talk but its not at all uncomfortable, I enjoy taking in his vibe and I assume he is taking in mine. I notice his near hypnotic eyes fell on to me for a moment and by the time he realized I noticed, he would discreetly turn away and his orbs would instead dart around the living room observing the congested bodies and back to the kitchen.

I've always believed a simple look speaks a lot louder than words and if I didn't' know any better I can almost swear he was slightly embarrassed that I caught him staring. He continues to observe, avoiding my way completely.

Or perhaps he truly is looking for someone in particular. The alcohol gradually takes effect on me much sooner than I would have liked. I soon consciously make myself take in less and not sip as often as I was a few moments ago.

"You don't like anyone here or something?" I ask suddenly on account of the alcohol now coursing through my veins. Curiosity laced my tone from his earlier comment more then I intended. I would assume most of the people here were some sort of friend considering they all dressed alike and presumably had the same interests as him.

He lightly rolled eyes trying to find the right words to the question. "Yeah and no…" He says with a shrug. "No, not really, its just a lot of the people here don't really understand why we dress the way we do and why our outlooks differ from others." He explained finally looking back at me. "They consider it a fucking fashion statement, that's hardly the point."

I suddenly feel like I'm apart of those wanna-bes'. Considering Stan made me dress the way he did just so I can blend in and I truly never understood they're way of thinking. If anything, I honestly found it whinny and pathetic.

The blaring music continued to pound our ears and the strobe light flashed against us in colorful rays. I noticed with each thump that pierced my eardrums the drunker I became. Suddenly, a boldness I rarely experience shined its way through. "What is it then?" I ask, a bit of the frustration I had towards Stan back in the fourth grade during his phase of exactly this trickled through. I look directly to his eyes demanding for an answer and I nearly gasped on how insanely haunting they were…they made knees nearly give out.

I can tell the alcohol has now affected him as well. He leaned in closer, determined. Our noses nearly touched and I didn't at all flinch or worry about who may be watching, I honestly got a sort of rush from his closeness and my cheeks abruptly flushed a bit. "Back when I was six, I witnessed my father commit suicide." He said rather flatly. "He hung himself and I watched him take his very last breath before me. I didn't do anything, I couldn't, I didn't even understand the concept of death but it had a lasting impression on my life as you can tell. My mom since suffered a case of chronic depression and everything from that point all of a sudden became hopeless and I carried that hopelessness all my life. Darkness and this fascination with death is the only real thing I feel I have left with both my parents..." He paused for a moment never leaving my gaze of shock. "I've contemplated doing what he did to myself plenty of times but would always chicken out. I only ever scratched at the surface just to leave the evidence on my wrists of the many failed attempts. "

I was a loss for words, I had no idea, never would have guess. "I- uh- I didn't-

"It's fine, don't sweat it." He waved a dismissive hand then downing the rest of his drink.

I continue to stand dumbfounded. I down my entire drink as well. After a speech like that I wasn't sure if I needed the alcohol or not. I look over to Skyler and he gives me an assuring smirk. His hypnotic blues were glazed over a clear indication of the alcohol. I was still at a loss for words not knowing what to say now.

"Hey, Kyle! Over here!" I hear a familiar voice shout much to my relief. I turn around and noticed Stan across the living room raising his red cup in a sloppy toast. He had an arm loosely wrapped around the waist of no other than Henrietta. She seemed to ignore Stan's bellow instead talking to a girl with hot pink locks who's on the opposite side Stan. They both started laughing and the girl spilled some of her drink as she hunched over in giggles.

"I'll be in her parents room, dude!" He shouts above the music, dashing a rascally grin. "I think your gonna have to drive back tonight." He finished, not giving me a chance to respond that I didn't' think I could. He left towards the said area with both girls in tow. I've known Stan long enough now to know when he drinks he becomes rather…promiscuous.

I lightly roll my eyes and turn my attention back to Skyler. I'm pretty sure he notices the knowing glance plastered on my face. "Looks like you're going to be here for a while." He says, a bit of mischief laced in his tone, (courtesy of the alcohol) confirming that he too knew what Stan may be up to tonight. "Want another drink?" He continued leaning in towards me locking his eyes with my own. I'm pretty sure he already knew my answer.

My cheeks flushed and I just stared back entranced too drunk to care if he noticed. He suddenly wraps a hand around my wrist, pulls me close and leads me back to the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

_A.N: Hello again! My apologies for any inaccuracies in type II diabetic protocols and information, the source of my information is through a friend who also has type II diabetes. And FYI: I recently saw an older episode of SP and completely forgot they had already used the name Skyler for a douche baggy band member they temporarily had on the show, bearing that in mind, I refuse to change the name. (I initially chose Skyler because my cousin's name is Skyler and I always liked the name) Anywho, hope you guys enjoy the new chappy! Now that I'm settled in a routine, updates will be more frequent._

* * *

We knocked back two shots of jack, and are currently nursing a second cup of jack and coke. He pulled off finding another vacant couch, claiming it the second it was available.

As time went on, I could have sworn I sensed him scooting himself closer, however the thought could have only been my hazed state of mind, frolicking ruses. We talked about bands, him more willing on the subject than I. He slurred a hand full of bands, and severely overlapped their names that I couldn't distinguish them. It sounded like a scrambled mess of random articles, titles, and an outlandishly creative slew of nouns. I never familiarized, let alone came across hearing about any band he made known and judging from the muddled look I bared, he decides to flip the conversation and asks what kind of music I spent precious time listening to. I didn't know what to answer the question with. I already know from what he's told me and his natural character, his taste in music and what's determined as good is selective as the tedious opting of quality wine. Fuck, I'm a natural conversationalist, stimulating and chock full of effectively persuading and dissuading others as well as flourishing in heated debate, but this Goth I just started getting acquainted with, whose disposition is laced with a surge of typical cynicism, but exposes this relaxed smoothness that makes me wish I was more familiar with hinders all those primes I'm known for.

"Uh…" I slurred, drawing a blank. "Uh…How about The Raging Pussies?" I say, a bit jumbled, the answer was more of a fleeting thought and I'm sure the nervousness I stirred from his question made me say it, instantly finding myself regretting the answer. With the knit of my brows, I wished I was sober enough to effectively filter my thoughts and edit the trained flow of my tongue. I must sound mega retarded right now, Skyler only solidified my notion when he snorted at the now disbanded group.

He peered at me, eyes fixed dully. "Their lyrics sucked ass." He replies with satisfied grunt. He downs more of his drink accentuating his point.

I adjust on my seat facing more towards him. In my drunken cloud, I make a conscious effort to not at all spill my drink, I suppose he noticed my intention but didn't seemed fazed when I slightly faltered my cup, potentially spilling a generous amount of liquor and soda on his black jeans. Surprisingly, I succeeded in not doing so. I gained a new found determination to defend the band I admired during my younger and more pivotal adolescent era. It was then, that with the rare help of Cartman-the sadistic fat bastard—that I managed to land my parents in jail by saying a magical fatal word to the proper authorities. The dire want-no- need to see their concert, guaranteed without parents' consent is what encouraged me to do the act of such treachery.

"I'm gonna- I'm gonna have to differ with you on that one." I begin and I give his shoulder a poke with a free finger, prepared to prove him wrong. He seemed amused from the gesture as his eyes cast down to where I poked him for a moment then returns his full attention back to me. I noticed something peculiar that danced in his eyes, something that I wanted in. "They were one of my favorite bands." I continued. "And their lyrics did not suck ass, they were better than all that pussy shit you and Stan are so keen of."

Skyler sniggered at my last comment, further fueling his amusement.

I continued. "They were different and they separated themselves from all the typical poppy shit and I-and I identified with their music. I'll have you know- how that band- that band helped me become who I am today, their music helped mold my thought process and filtrate important choices that crossed my life." Alright, the last couple phrases were a bit exaggerated but I needed a boost to highlight my defense.

Skyler quirks a brow, and eyes me, searching, his intricate glint now intensified that it was damn near staggering. "I see...well, since I like hanging out with you... I guess they couldn't have been all that bad." He says matter-of-fact, giving the impression that his previous argument now sits void.

I didn't know what to say to that, especially when heat involuntarily rose to my cheeks. I took another sip of my drink, slowly this time to veil the evidence of his inexplicable pull.

As night grew more mature, the more I lost track of it, this element of time became more of a distant memory and the thought of breaking the connection I'm forced to accommodate my life with sounds awfully appealing. To somehow be allowed to completely remove myself from its eternal relationship was nothing short of reaching the ultimate human relief. The heavy music coupled with the alcohol that coursed through me enhanced that desire.

Being in Skyler's company for the last few hours made me realize how different it was hanging out with him than it was with Stan. Their personalities are similar yet completely different. I suppose it's because Stan's Goth phase erupted when a girl broke his heart. Skyler's surfacing Goth came about through years of much more pressing circumstances. I've gotten so used to hanging out with Stan throughout the better part of my life that the thought of doing so with anyone else seemed beyond foreign and boring but that old thought now seems foiled since I'm content hanging around Skyler and I wouldn't mind doing so again after tonight. I wonder if he would even want to, once daily routine settles back in at dawn.

We were silent for a while, not that it bugged me in the least. I glance towards him, sipping more poison in doing so. I notice him staring off into nothing in particular, not caring that his black and red fringe blocked most of his vision, I caught him doing that a lot tonight, must be dreamy habit of his...I should start calling him, dreamer.

"Can I ask you something?" He asks suddenly, keeping his attention ahead.

I realized my subtle glance became more of a gaze when he finally spoke. "Uh, yeah." I manage, although I can't help but to think this will be no ordinary question. Luckily, the alcohol has eliminated most of my inhibitions, so at this rate, I really don't care what slurs out his mouth.

"Fuckers talked their shit, you know, but how much of it is true, if any at all?" He says as clearly as his speech currently allows him to. "With you?" He concludes finally looking at my now shocked state.

I've never been drunk in my life prior to this night, let alone pissed and drunk. The two emotions don't mix well, deterring my thought process of what to say next. So, I do what feels right without causing unwanted attention. I get up and stalk towards upstairs. I don't give a fuck what Stan may be up to, we're leaving now. My intoxication suddenly seemed to fly out of me; however, as I marched up the stairs my mind still carried full effects of the liquor, causing my head to spin.

"Kyle!" I hear Skyler bark, his voice more raspy than before, and realizing he was directly behind me. I land on the threshold of the second level of the house, deciding to slam open every bedroom door until I find Stan. Before I can embark on such a rash plan, Skyler grasps my wrist forcing me to turn and face him head on.

I glare, daring him to top my fury. "Is that why you decided to talk to me all the sudden?" I say through clenched teeth, yanking my wrist from his grip. "So you can get your fucking gossip fix?"

Skyler's gaze pierces a hole through me; I can almost swear his eyes are pleading for me to understand. "It's not like that; I had no intention to upset you. I give you my word on that." He says gravely.

"Yeah right, you fucking asshole. We never once talked! And you decide to finally do so tonight. I should've known that you were fucking after something!" I shout accusingly, my intoxication coming back in full force. I suddenly feel unbalanced as my anger continued to boil through me. Skyler grabs a hold of my shoulders, helping to regain my posture.

"Come here." He commanded, grabbing my wrist once again, and directed me further into the hallway. Two doors down to the left, he opens a bedroom door, and tosses me inside. He then lets himself into the room, slowly closing the door behind him, as if to not let anyone know of what just unfolded. I'm not sure whether he locked it or not. He turns and stares expectedly; eyes are more alert than before, but still glazed over proving the liquor still has primary initiative. I rest a hand on rod iron bed post, stabling myself from being shoved. I abruptly feel this shortness of breath; I concentrate on my breathing and focus on each breath, hoping it'll calm my nerves, and sort my disoriented thoughts.

The bedroom appears to be a simple guest room adorned with miscellaneous objects including a cross that hung above the door, as to ward off evil spirits. I shoot my gaze back to Skyler, he continues to stand there looking at me and I can't help but to flush a bit from his hard look.

"What the hell is this about?" I ask, still trying to get my breathing under control.

"I didn't want people to start noticing." He answers simply, running a hand through his heavy chopped bang, pushing most of the hair out of his face only to have a few strands fall back into place.

My breathing becomes more ragged, and my grip on the bedpost tightens. I know this familiar feeling all too well, and I curse myself for not taking responsibility on it earlier. My blood sugar is low, and I know if I don't act fast I'll eventually pass out. I look at Skyler trying to form the words, but didn't know where to begin.

His eyes knit, growing with concern. "What's wrong?"

I continue taking in irregular breaths, "I need candy." I say, feeling retarded the moment I said it.

My feeling is confirmed since Skyler looks at me as if I lost my mind. "What?" He asks, disbelievingly.

I become aggravated at his slowness and my inflection becomes grimmer. "I need to eat something with fucking sugar." I say, further mending my brows in frustration.

Skyler looked as though he had an epiphany. "Fuck, you're a diabetic?" He asks, hastily.

I simply nod, unable to produce the strength for words to his question. My grip on the bedpost loosens, and I gingerly sit on the bed, placing each hand on either side of me, aiding my back from not hunching too harshly.

Skyler comes to my side at an instant; he places a hand gently on my shoulder, yet clasps it reassuringly, searching for my gaze. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have never made your drink that strong with alcohol."

I wanted to tell him that it didn't matter too much, but what concerned me most was the soda. Soda has sugar in it, I shouldn't be feeling this way, I know for fact my levels are low right now, not high.

"Kyle, don't pass out, alright. I'll be right back." With that final statement he left.

I wasn't sure if he was even going to come back or not. At that moment, I truly felt alone, and I may very well sit here, and wait for what God has in store. I reached this state a few times before, but I never once passed out. Bearing those thoughts in mind, I become more nervous, feeling each passing second down to my core. Gripping the comforter, I try and to filter my perilous state. I decide to lay myself on the bed, thinking it would alleviate my symptoms.

I see the door open with vigor, and a light in the hallway that I didn't know exists flashed into the room blinding my peripheral. The door shut after a beat, and I see a figure saunter near me. A head of choppy, jet black hair and a set of deep brown, nearly black eyes gazed over me. He looked even paler than everyone else I've seen tonight. His dark eyes twinkled curiously as he raised an eyebrow, intrigued with the mess unfolding before him.

"You gonna puke or something?" He asks with a wry smirk. I wasn't sure if this guy wanted to help out, or if he was just amused with the thought of someone purging their guts out.

I didn't say anything because I felt it was pointless trying to explain to this stranger how I was a diabetic suffering a potentially severe outcome since I didn't bother eating much of anything throughout the day, causing my blood sugar to plummet, and how I now needed some candy or juice to remedy the effects. Nor did I check my levels today either, fuck! Instead, I kept my gaze fixed on his, hoping to relay the message that this is much more serious than a case of nausea due to a yielding drinking binge.

The more I silently pleaded to this guy, the more familiar he looked. I know I've seen him somewhere before, that I perhaps spoken to him on more than one occasion. I don't think this guy had realized the state of my condition and at this point I just want him to move to help me, or at least leave me be. I got the impression that he was he too was drunk, but as I focused more on him, his near black eyes were dilated giving the impression that he was laced with something more scandalous.

"I know what can make you feel better." He slurs resting a hand on my shoulder, applying pressure to ease the muscle beneath.

"No-I don't…" I manage to choke. The last thing I want is this guy is to do anything funny.

"It's fine, look." The hand that rested on my shoulder moved and dug into his back pocket retrieving a prescription bottle, dangling it flirtatiously. "This will kill any stress your feeling." He assures with a shit eating smirk.

He opens the bottle, and directs the opening above his palm giving it a quick shake, and a single pink pill comes to view. It's rather flat but round and deceitfully innocent, like a kids vitamin supplement. He takes the pill between his thumb and index finger, directing it towards my mouth. I continue to feel weaker by the second, and it takes all the strength I have to force my lips shut. He tries to pry them open by shoving the pink pill between my lips but, I'll be damned if I budge.

He signs, clearly frustrated, and probably killing whatever high he's on. "Dude, just fucking relax and take the pill...it'll make you feel good, trust me." He drags his last statement hoping to persuade me somehow.

I want to tell him no, to get the fuck away, but I'm afraid the moment I part my lips he'll shove that god forsaken pill down my throat. At this rate, I doubt Skyler will come back and save me from this lunatic. He's just as hammered as I am, and likely to forgot all about the wanna-be goth with smeared eyeliner cast on his lids. I don't blame him; we hardly knew each other, and I was tempted to kick his ass anyway.

The guy placed the pill between his lips, a bit of pink still exposed. He cups his hands on either side of my face, and leans down, a clear indication of sort of 'shot gunning' this. Horrid realization clenches my insides as I feel the last of my conscious mind slipping away. I'm so fucking scared, I've never imagined being in a dilemma such as this. Help is so close yet so far, Stan is only a couple doors down, Skyler is only downstairs. If only…if only…

"What the fuck." I hear a familiar voice seethe, almost creepily.

The boy turns his attention to the source, his eyes gleaming with familiarity. "Skyler, hey." He replies, and adds with dark undertone. "It's been a while".

Skyler is at my side in an instant, shoving the boy off me, and taking his place hovering over me. His eyes glowed with agitation with what appeared to be a hint of worry. "Here." He directs a cup to my mouth, and I freak out a bit, refusing to drink whatever he's offering. After the stunt the other guy pulled, I don't want anything I'm not sure of traveling down my throat.

"Kyle, its juice, drink it, you're about to pass out." Skyler reassures and lifts my head with his hand, and with his other hand, guides the drink to my lips. I still hesitate, but I know if I don't trust him, I'll experience passing out from diabetic complications for the first time. I part my lips, and allow the sweet liquid to coat my tongue, it tastes like pineapple.

Skyler rests the hand that helped lift my head and rests it on my forearm, he turns his gaze away from me, and instead to the boy standing with the pill bottle still clasped in hand, now at the corner of the room.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Skyler accuses, his grip on me tighten ever so slightly.

"He needs it, look at him." The boy says as he leisurely paced around the room, clearly not fazed, and uninterested in whatever threat Skyler may cast his way.

"Just get out." Skyler replies tonelessly

He shoots his dilated gaze to Skyler then briefly on to me before reverting back to the true Goth. The guy's eyes twinkled with diminutive mischief, a trait I come to be far too familiar with, courtesy of Cartman. His chest rises and falls with disturbingly even breaths. "You know we can have fun with this." He says to Skyler, voice showered with conviction

"I fucking doubt that." Skyler curtly replies, his eyes narrowing further onto the intruder.

The boy's lips draws into a frown and his head cocks to the side in obvious mockery. "Don't act like your now all the sudden a fucking-

"Get the hell out, Damian!"

What the fuck? Damian? That's where I know that face from, the near black eyes and deathly pale skin, the supposed true prince of darkness. God, I haven't seen him in about eight, perhaps nine years? He had one day stopped showing up to school almost as if he disappeared for good. The only person that seemed to have notice, and lament his departure was Pip, and even he in turn left the school a couple years later. Exactly where to? Well, none of us cared to find out.

Damian casts his black orbs to Skyler piercing through his being, he then diverts his them to me, and a form of realization seeped through. I suppose his realization and mine were somehow synced. "No fucking way…" He says, a smile that reeked creepy mischief returned back to his lips. "Kyle, I never imagined this would be your scene."

The sugar by this time has drastically recovered my low levels, and I'm pretty sure I'll be fine for a while, hopefully the remainder of the night. I look over at Damian, a bit shocked on how much he's hasn't changed except for his height, and the inevitable changes of his preadolescence features transcending into more defined grown up features.

"Not exactly." I reply simply.

His attention returns to Skyler, and spontaneously back to me. "So what are you Broflovski?"

Skyler's lips purse. "Damian-

"Shut up" Damian snaps "Answer the question, Kyle"

I'm not sure what the hell he's asking about. Is it my race? The clique I may be in? What? Whatever it is, I don't want give him the liberty of knowing anything about me. Dumb fucker, only a second ago he tried shoving god knows what down my throat. "What did you try giving me?" I challenge.

"Don't try and weasel your way out the question."

"I don't know what the fuck you're asking!" I retort. Wow, what a way of reacquainting with someone you haven't seen since elementary school.

"Don't play stupid, look at yourself…with him."

I can't believe he's asking me this kind of question, why does he even want to know something like that, unless he's-

"Is that why you wanted to try that stunt earlier?"

"Your one to talk, I'm not the one who was on my-."

"Damian! Get the fuck out!" Skyler seethes.

I can feel the blood drain my face, and my stomach knot with distain. Skyler shoots up from the bed, and I slightly jump, I'm not sure what the hell he's planning to do. I watch him as I try to contain the anxiety that now bubbled through the surface of my skin. He looked over to Damian, his eyes stoic, yet cold.

"What the fuck is this about?" Skyler asks evenly.

Damian's stance becomes cold, unwavering. "I can't stand to see you on another guy."

Suddenly there's a bang on the door, an incessant knocking, almost frantic. We all shoot our heads to the source. Damian rolled his eyes, his scowl deepening.

"Hey open up!" A muffled voice demands on the other end.

Damian seemed to have recognized the voice, and opened the door with rough swiftness. A couple of guys with pasty white skin were revealed. They both shot their eyes to Damian, and the three of them seemed to convey a silent message, a stare down of sorts.

"We've been looking for you." The guy to the left finally said

The guy to the right poked his head inside the room, and quirked a brow upon noticing Skyler and I. "What's going on here?" The guy's question was more of a rhetorical one.

The other guys crosses his arms over his chest looking like he's trying to exert some dominance, or some pack leader shit. "We're gonna roll. You in?"

"Let's go." Damian said minimally with pursed lips. He now seemed to have lost whatever high he was on earlier, and his friend's invitation clearly perked his interest.

Damian's attention shifts back to Skyler from the door way, and gives him a final acknowledgement before departing.

"You guys' wanna come?" One of the guys asks us with a nod towards the staircase

I shake my head no, and I couldn't cover the subtle anger that was plastered on my face, Skyler was silent, but the guy nonetheless got the message, shutting the door before leaving completely with Damian and his other friend likely already off to their next destination. From the looks of it, I pretty sure it has to do with drugs, or perhaps other acts I have no right to become aware of.

Skyler's head lowers, red fringe cascading down with the movement. "Are you good?" He asks, exhausted now replaces his previously callous tone.

"Yes." I say then added "Thank you."

"You should probably go home." Skyler suggests.

"No, I'll be fine." I say a bit too quickly. "Besides I can't leave Stan." I conclude more leisurely.

"Listen, I never meant-

"It's fine." I say with polite curtness. "Just tell me if you're in for another drink."

"Dude, you nearly passed out from it in the first place."

"No, alcohol doesn't affect me like that. What really mattered is what you mixed it with. It was coke right?"

"Yeah, but it was diet." He says

I snort at his answer too amused to care anymore. Fake, sugar is the ultimate culprit for diabetics, and a slew of other medical conditions, memory loss, weight gain, the list goes on. I shuffle off the bed, and boldly approach him.

"I trust you won't forget that I don't do diet then."

Skyler smirks and motions for me to follow him back out the door, back into a world far from my own.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Hello everyone! Thank you, to every single one of you who has reviewed, favored, etc. It means the world to me, and totally makes my day. Tehehe. Anyway, here is a new chappy, and a thousand apologies for any spelling, and grammar mistakes. Also, I have kind of noticed that people have somehow collectively named the red goth kid, Dylan? Yeah…I'm not down with that. So, until Matt and Trey gives out an official name, red goth will remain as Skyler in my book. Enjoy!

* * *

"Kyle...Kyle, we've got to go." A blurry head of black hair is at my side, and is nudging my shoulder. My head is pulsating, and I have this shit dry cotton taste that percolated the pores of my tongue sometime overnight.

Through my blurry vision, I'm further greeted by streaks of early morning rays that managed to grass through the disheveled living room curtains. I shield my eyes with my forearm, grumbling about needing a few more minutes of sleep to someone that I assumed was Skyler.

"Dude… its Stan, come on, my mom wanted me home last night, and you know she won't have a problem letting your mom know if she doesn't see us in the next twenty minutes."

I instantly wake up from his comment. Instinctively, my eyes shot wide open, numbed with morning fatigue, but alert nonetheless. There is no way in hell my mom can know that I stayed out for a long as I did. Especially, now being laced with the pungent stench of stale alcohol, and it's evident that my body is experiencing the tarnishing hangover. "My mom can't know." It was a lethargic plea, which I found to be pathetic, the moment it left my mouth. I begin to arise from whatever comforter I spent the night on, grabbing the edge of it, and swinging it off my legs in one fluid motion.

"If we hurry, she won't find out shit." Stan assures me with a heave of my arm, and we begin to work our way around the sea of unconscious bodies.

It doesn't really occur to me as to where Skyler may be, considering my mom's potential wrath is now my foremost thought. My head suddenly performed a somersault, and I stopped Stan mid stride, to steady myself. His eyes widen a bit, fearing that I will pull one of his stunts, and purge my guts out. I didn't feel the need to do that, but I can see that l might later have to sit on my knees with my head over the porcelain toilet, in degradation, vomiting filth. I managed to think straight again, and soon gave Stan a quick nod, signaling that I was fine, and we continued our way.

I had to consciously watch my footing around the disarrayed bodies. I can only imagine that not one person who is splayed on the living room floor can give two shits about authority half as much as Stan, and I still do; and as I exit the front door to resume the same activity I've been doing day in, and day out for the last seventeen years, a wishful thought suddenly occurred. A notion I don't play with too often for reasons that are etched in my particular upbringing… I wished I didn't give two shits either.

* * *

That following Monday, going through school was the average, run-of-the-mill, black and white process that I've been doing too much, and too long, for my own good, with only one exception. I honestly didn't know what to expect of Skyler if I were to see him; I imagined a simple gesture of acknowledgement would have been appropriate. However, when I finally did, during the transition between sixth, and seventh period; I took notice of him, and he didn't give me much as a sideways glance.

I comb through my memories of the night of the party, and I can't remember any specifics of what happened during the final duration of it. Nonetheless, as far as I can tell, everything was fine despite my earlier outburst, and Damian's volatile motives. We drank more alcohol, and discussed more topics one would only bring up during the occasion.

I was going to approach him in the hall when I caught sight of him, and I'm certain I was in his line of vision. He was leaning on one of the lockers, a single hand rested in his jean pocket conversing with a teen that clearly looked ripe out of Jr. High. His stage of development was towards the last dreadful stages of puberty, cheeks tainted with a fresh coat of acne, and likely trying to still balance his new and shifty tone of voice that likely betrays him at moments like this. His eyes sparked for acceptance, to belong in a niche, promising enough to guide him socially through the unsteady grounds of high school, and I suppose the Goths were right up his alley.

Skyler looked as if he could care less about the kid in front of him as much as the black paint he suddenly decided to chip off his finger nails. He dully looked at the boy, his eyes never truly fixed on him. His lips graced a faint frown that signified a great amount of hidden petulance, but the boy remained oblivious to it. Skyler's intimidating orbs lingered towards me, a blank expression that didn't convey anything. We locked contact for a moment, and as quickly as that small exchange happened, he performed a swift roll of his eyes, and directed it back to the meddling boy. I turned my attention away as well; paranoid that people may have notice what just happened. I walk passed him, acting as if his move had no effect on me.

I go to class, and attempt to drill out his altered temperament that I never came to know that night. The teacher's lecture was fogged in my mind, in lieu with addled thoughts, and what ifs'.

* * *

The sky has dusted into its typical orange glow of late afternoon from what's displayed outside my window; and the view could not have been any more nauseating. Stan finished typing a paragraph on our history project covering the post results of the Civil War, and I couldn't be any more relieved now that we're nearly done. This group project shit is the biggest joke in the history of pedagogy. All it has proven is that even lazy bastards can still prevail with an outstanding letter grade regardless of effort or input, but I guess we're bound to encounter types of that very nature till the end of our days.

In this case, I'm not talking about Cartman, but this one fucker, Rudy Shaw, who transferred from Boulder last term, and brought all his baggage along for the rest of us to sort. He reminds some of a more disturbed version of Craig with his cold stares, and infamous disregarding attitude, the only addition being that his character is more damning. At least I'm able to hang out with Craig without feeling uncomfortable, but Rudy is utterly unwelcoming. He has a recreational habit of smoking the strongest quality of marijuana; the proof of which reeks an entire room whenever he enters it. He was assigned with Stan and me for the project, and has only managed to attend two out of our six sessions. We always offered the option of working at the library rather than our or his personal spaces out of regard for comfort, and convenience, but that idea was a fail. We'd catch him in the halls, more so than in class, and his excuses are always along the lines of 'I forgot' or 'I got caught up with something' So, it was after one of Stan's hissy fits where I suggested that we just do the project ourselves, and stop wasting our energy agonizing that he's not collaborating with us as directed.

Stan props his elbow on the desk's surface, and rests his chin on the palm of his hand as I continued flipping through pages of our class notes. I can feel the proclivities of dialogue desperate to slip his tongue; his habitual knee bounce is enough of an indication. "...Kyle..." he finally says, and I feel a wave course through my stomach, and catch in my throat. He hasn't talked to me much since the night of the party.

"Yeah..." I encourage, without the aid of eye contact.

He further slumps his weight onto his propped hand, appearing to dread what he feels the need to say, and finally admits. "You were right…"

I quirk a brow, and my gaze lingers to his form, now even more hunched over the desk. He looks like he's going to be sick, but I allow him to sit with what he said, and decide to say nothing.

* * *

I lay in bed trying to distract myself from today's quiet exchange with Skyler by creating figures with the muddled popcorn ceiling above me. My hands rest upon an open book that I aimlessly placed across my stomach that I had originally planned on reading, but never went past the first couple paragraphs. I can't understand why I've been so troubled with his reaction towards seeing me today. I only hung out with him that one night, I should have guessed that nothing more would exceed the following days. I suppose I was kind of looking forward to hanging out with someone who isn't Stan, and perhaps experience an ounce of something different, from someone different. I really don't know how much more different someone like him can get.

I turn my attention to the alarm clock on my nightstand, and groan at the numbers displayed before me.

"12:43..." I utter, as my mind stirs, lamentably, that I will have to be getting ready for school in a short few hours.

I get up; tossing the book at my nightstand, not caring what page I left off of, and I scurry over to turn off the main light to my room. I stood for a moment in the darkness, allowing my senses to appreciate the quality. It was a penetrating maturity the dark seemed to give out, rather than the youthful luminosity of daylight. Much to my dismay, it didn't take long for it to quickly remind me of that night. I saunter back, and nestle into bed, stuffing my legs under the comforter this time. I roll over and my nose comes to face the wall that my bed rests against. It bears no color, no worth, and I suddenly feel like shit.

A familiar heavy buzz comes from my nightstand where my cellphone sits charging. It buzzes further upon the surface, and I can sense it will fall over with a few more rattles. I want to ignore it, but curiosity bites my intent. I sit up, and grab the cell phone, half expecting it to be Kenny, and one of his drunken midnight text messages of playful innuendos, and 'I love you, man' confessions. However, it's a text from a series of numbers that have yet to be saved in my phone book. I frown, trying to randomly guess on who it may be, as I tap the 'view' box on the screen.

My frown deepens as I read the words before me, quick and to the point, and not displaying a single acronym or connotation. The irritating spelling shortcuts I've never grown adjusted to.

_If you still want to hang out, meet me tomorrow in the back after school_.

The deepest part within me knows who this is, but the rational part of my mind says otherwise. I stare numbly at my phone, battling with what words to use for the appropriate response. If it is who I think it is, why the sudden change of character? How did he even get a hold of my number? I was certain after that eye roll stunt he pulled; he made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me, and my accompanying conformist regard to certain aspects in the bleeding mainstream.

I quickly press on the digital letters on my touch screen creating a response. I look it over, once, twice, finally three times before I feel confident enough to press the send key. I don't know why I fretted; my reply was a single word. It's perhaps the simplest word in the history of the English language. _Ok _

I lay back down, tucking my cell phone in bed with me, and after a few moments of adjusting, I can tell it has already gotten lost within the layers of blankets, but I'll still be able to feel it vibrate. I soon felt hopeless, because I was inclined to stay up for the next ten minute to see if I get any sort of response. I never did.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Hello everyone! Thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chappy, and favored,and alterted. You have no idea how grateful I am for all of your wonderful feedback. Please R&R (again) it totally makes my day. XD Also, many apologies to any grammar errors I may have missed. Once again, R&R! Things finally get a bit steamy…Mwahaha!

* * *

Today was clouded with distant voices, and all my academic duties were done with little awareness. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous to meet Skyler today, as planned, after class. I am to meet him at the rear of the school in about ten minutes. I'm still not wholly certain if it was even Skyler that had texted me last night, but who else could have it been if not him? However, I don't allow that thought to question my attendance today. I trust that it was him, and the message wasn't cryptic enough to be just anyone.

The final bell rings, and the halls are immediately flooded with students eager to leave campus. I stride along in opposite tow from the general direction of traffic, with unnatural gumption. I struggle my way through people, some courteous enough to notice and step aside. Others shoulder bumped, mumbling an apology, while others were not so forgiving with their dirty glares and turned up noses. I was nearing the back of the school; sweat dotted my hairline, and my hands felt a bit clammy.

As I turned a corner, I crashed into someone with such ferocity that I literally ricochet. When I regain focus, my attention is faced with the flaky bastard that bailed on my and Stan's history project, Rudy Shaw. His thick black hair is shaggy, obviously uncombed, and oily, and his hazel eyes appeared more ablaze than usual, likely with the aid of something laced in his system.

He has an unlikely companion, standing behind him, with meek large eyes. A pang of pity runs down my spine at the sight of his delicate form that appears more fragile since the last time I've seen him. His mouth is lightly ajar, stunned to have seen me, and his eyes are desperate to convey a form of understanding. He only started hanging out with Rudy when he began to distance himself away from Clyde, Token and Craig in lieu with someone who could care less about his wellbeing.

"Tweek." I utter, hardly audible to my own ears, let alone his.

Tweek doesn't say anything, and diverts his gaze away from mine, and becomes a bit flushed, clearly ashamed that I caught him with the school's fuck up. Since Tweek has been hanging more around Rudy, he has gradually become less neurotic, along with his harsh levels of paranoia. But it has only created an empty void within him, strictly being dictated by whatever the fuck Rudy gives him.

"Watch it." Rudy spits under his breath, and continues his way, without a second glance.

Tweek pauses and takes a long look at me. The shifting of his feet indicates his hesitation of leaving, and perhaps being of consolation somehow. He takes one last attempt, a near gut wrenching attempt to not feel compelled to leave, but he does, following Rudy's direction like the lost little puppy he's become.

I shake off my thoughts of Tweek, and make my way towards the end of the school, where a vast field sits full of grass, patched with snow coverage. This is where the soccer and baseball teams occasionally practice on weekends, and after school, but not today.

I felt inclined to turn left once I'm through the threshold leading to the outside, and I'm greeted with Skyler turning a corner, in time with me. I didn't suspect such a synced arrival. A cigarette hangs limply from his lips, with a faint trail of smoke emitting from the ember tip. His black and red streaked hair covered a good portion of his face, giving that his attention was more to the floor than it was leveled. Undoubtedly, his entire wardrobe consists of black, and I can see the telltale sign of black eyeliner on his lids. Once I'm able to see him better, I can imagine that his eyes would carry more of an expressive tone in contrast with the cosmetic. His gaze finally balances with mine, and he welcomes me with a coy smirk.

He takes a final drag, and tosses the cigarette to the floor, pressing his heel atop the stick, extinguishing it. "About yesterday…" Skyler begins, a bit raspier than usual, likely due to the residue of smoke in his lungs.

I resolve on speaking first before he continues any further. I need to know what hell his problem was yesterday, and I go straight to my immediate suspicion. "Something else happened that night didn't it."

Skyler's expression becomes perplexed, and he says with a respectable amount of caution. "Dude, no. What makes you say that?"

I falter, and blink as a set of new thoughts deluges my mind. Then what can it be? "Yesterday, when I saw you, you looked pissed at me."

His feature doesn't change much, except with an added semblance of amusement. "I wasn't necessarily angry, I was annoyed."

Silence

I come to think that he enjoys seeing me uncertain, and a few more beats go by before he finally continues. "With that kid, who wouldn't shut that pathetic mouth of his… fucking poser." Skyler finishes, and closes the distance with me giving me a casual one armed hug. He released the grip on my shoulder as quickly as he placed it there, and I try to disable the look of surprise with leisure.

"You should give the kid some credit." I say in light of the boy's effort, but more so of my contrived look of ease.

Skyler gives me skeptical quirk of his brow with pursed lips. "Not a chance, he'd be better off playing in traffic."

I don't mean to condone his suggestion, or sound selfish, but his comment was soothing to say the least.

We began to walk towards the back exit of the school, causally exchanging the new aspects of our lives that occurred within the last few days. We walked towards the general direction of our neighborhood, and there are moments that pass without dialogue, the only sound is of our shoes crunching in snow, a one of a kind effect.

"You want to come over for a while." Skyler asked with his attention fixed ahead. It felt like a question he harbored for a while, and perhaps felt that now was the appropriate time to announce it. It felt too rehearsed to have been casually leaked, but it was flattering nonetheless, if anything, solidifying.

"Yeah." I reply a little too quickly, as I thought of the homework I have nestled, and swishing inside my backpack, but resolve that delaying it a few hours won't be a detriment.

We make it to Skyler's sooner than anticipated. I suppose talking does make time fly by faster. Like the times Stan and I would have one of our much deeper rooted discussions on the parts and pieces of life, and philosophy and justice, and even the flawed charts of the zodiac. What we thought to have been an hour of discussion would realistically be tripled the assumed time. Those times, I can honestly say, was the best of times I've had with Stan through my life of knowing him.

Skyler's house is homey, but it doesn't carry any distinct taste, whether it may be appealing or not. The space looks to not belong to anyone, with its expressionless white tones, and the curtains seemed to be deliberately pulled shut, assuring not a peek of light would never interfere. But then I remember a pivotal facet of Skyler's home life that he made known that night. His mom suffers from severe depression, and what I've seen so far suddenly makes sense.

Skyler breaks my train of thought. "You want to watch a movie in my basement?"

I boggle at his inquiry but, good naturally. "I hope you don't plan to trap me there."

He smiles, and I think it's the first time I've actually seen some teeth. His smile is nice, dashing really. It sort of reminds me of Stan's. His smile disappeared into a smirk, and I wish there was a way I can tell him, without sounding too faggy, that smiling actually does him a lot better.

We step our way into his basement, and it looks to be a nice lounging area. Adorned with posters from various punk rock bands I've never heard of, a black couch, black rug, and red and black candles displayed on the television stand, and also on the short wooden coffee table, polished chocolate brown, that sat at the center. It was a heaven for someone like him, and in all honestly it didn't look half bad.

I sit on the couch as he crouches down at the television stand flipping through his DVD collection. I peek over his shoulder and notice his tastes in movies are more in the horror, and thriller genre, along with a couple cult classic slasher films. I've never been a fan of horror, since the showering of blood and guts has never appealed to me.

"Are you easily spooked?" He asks over his shoulder, presenting the cover of a classic zombie flick.

"Dude, no." I say, a bit offended at his question.

"Good, 'Night of the Living Dead' it is."

He pops in the movie and makes his way over, sitting on the left side of the couch, while I reside at the arm of the right. He reaches over and turns off the lamp conveniently placed besides him, and the room flashed dark, save from the flickered openings of the black and white movie of course.

For some reason, black and white horror films tend to hold a lot more credibility than the one in crisp color today. It must be the sense of inviting yourself into a completely different world from your own, and the contrasting color scheme seems to legitimately uphold that.

A good hour into the movie, we didn't do much, but make ourselves more comfortable on our respected areas on the couch. It wasn't until zombies began to enclose on the man's house, which is out in the middle of desolate woods, when I began to feel the stress of the character. Skyler must have noticed my change, because he scooted himself closer to me, and bent down, playfully biting my shoulder.

I shoot my gaze to him, amusement danced in his eyes, as the televisions blue glow casted nicely against his tone. "What was that for?" I inquire, and I couldn't stop the upward tug of my lip.

"I already got you, so now there's no reason to feel anxious." He replies coolly, and turns his attention back to the screen ahead, never moving back to his side of the couch.

I can literally feel his body heat on my shoulder, and I steadily loose interest on the movie, and instead divert it to Skyler's breathing form next to me. I kept stealing glances of him from my peripheral, all aware that I never been too talented on doing so discreetly.

Skyler becomes even more comfortable, and leans his body onto mine, as I continued to lean against the arm of the couch, now trying to desperately feign my attention at the rotting flesh eating cannibals now in action.

He bites my shoulder again, and I can't bear to look at him. This time, it clearly felt too intimate. I suddenly feel at edge, stifled, and slapped with a slew of other emotions I'm not accustomed to receiving. He bites again, a little harder, and moves his way up to my neck, and my skin tingles, wantonly from the warmth of his breath.

He casually shifts to straddling himself on my hips, and my eyes strain to focus on anything else but him. My mind doesn't believe this is happening, but my body begs to differ. I can sense him searching for my gaze, but I'd be damned if he's able to see my most private countenance that he's now stirred awake.

"Kyle…" Skyler whispers by my ear with such irreversible conviction, and I nearly loose it right then.

My gaze involuntarily snaps to his, and his eyes carries a fire in them I've never seen present before. He leans down and captures my lips with the gentlest of kisses and my body surrenders. I grant him to further explore, and he encourages me to do the same. His hands rest on my shoulders, and eventually glides them to my face. His fingers are soft, but masculine, and I feel that, as he entangles his fingers into my hair with dexterous ease, evolving the kiss with more finesse.

We finally part for breath, and I stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief. He looks unfazed, almost as if nothing ever happened.

"I've been wanting to do that." He admits, giving me a peck on my now swollen lips, accentuating his point.

Any response I tried mustering stayed trapped in the center of my throat. Had Skyler expected to do this? Had I? I'm not appalled or disgusted, or any of those things a man in my position would expect to feel. Should expect to feel. Only one question remains.

How did he know?


End file.
